When I learned that Holly Jones had gone to deliver cold medicine to her young assistant, even though she knew I was trapped in the elevator and suffered from claustrophobia, I asked for a divorce.

Holly signed without hesitation. Smiling at her best friend, she said,

"Jim is just throwing a little tantrum. His parents are gone, so there's no way he'd really divorce me. Besides, there's a thirty-day cooling-off period before it's finalized. If he regrets it, I'll graciously forgive him and take him back."

The very next day, she posted a couples' photoshoot with her assistant, captioned: [Capturing your every sexy moment.]

I counted the days.

Calmly, I packed my belongings and made a phone call.

"Uncle, buy me a ticket to Hudson City."

"Jim, it's fantastic that you're coming home after all these years. As your uncle, I can't tell you how happy that makes me."

The middle-aged man's voice lifted with emotion on the other end of the line.

The moment the call ended, Holly Jones swung the door open, and with her entrance, the room filled with an unfamiliar masculine scent, a mix of tobacco and leather.

"Who were you talking to?"

Her question was more of a formality than genuine interest; her gaze was glued to her phone screen, not bothering to look up at me.

I was about to respond when Holly's phone interrupted us with its own ring. A man's voice, dripping with feigned frailty, came through, saying, "Ms. Jones, I owe you for the medicine you brought me. Without your help, my cold would've turned nasty. I don't know what I'd do without you!"

Holly, sensing something off, quickly lowered the volume.

I shut my mouth, bored with the whole charade, thinking, 'We're already heading for a divorce, aren't we?'

In silence, I tidied up a bit and warmed a cup of milk, sticking to my usual routine.

Once Holly wrapped up her call, she settled on the couch, thumbing through the finance section of the newspaper. Out of habit, her hand searched for the coffee I used to make for her. Not finding it, she finally shot me an impatient look.

"Are you still upset that I didn't rescue you from the elevator malfunction incident?

"Charles' cousin, the doctor, said your claustrophobia isn't that serious. Stop being so dramatic.

"And let's not forget: you were the one who wanted a divorce, and I agreed. So why the long face all the time?"

I remembered that night vividly. I was working late, trapped in an elevator when the power was out, my phone battery on its last leg. My claustrophobia surged, and shaking, I called Holly.

Her response? "Can't you sort it out yourself? I'm busy."

Then my phone went dead, and I almost did, too.

I later discovered that her assistant, Charles Shaw, had been on leave; she had granted his request for days. It dawned on me then that she had been out delivering cold medicine to Charles that night.

So, I asked for a divorce.

"Don't worry, once we're through with the divorce, you won't have to put up with me anymore."

I kept working, assuming Holly would be relieved, but to my surprise, she cranked up the volume. "Just make sure you don't regret this!"

When I stayed silent, buried in my work, Holly stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

I could not be bothered to dissect her mood swings.

After wrapping up my tasks, I downed the last of my hot milk, took a soothing hot shower, and got ready for bed.

Out of the blue, Holly texted me.

[I'm plastered. Come and get me, and bring some yogurt.]

I did not want to, but then Holly texted again.

[We're not officially divorced yet. You still have husbandly duties to fulfill.]

Exhausted, I gathered my things and headed out.

Reaching the club's entrance, Holly and Charles' laughter echoed from inside.

It took me back to the night I suggested divorce, when a drunk Holly was asked by a friend, "Do you really want to divorce Jim?"

With a scoff, she replied, "He's just having a fit. His parents are gone. He wouldn't actually leave me.

"Plus, the court is making us wait before the divorce goes through. If Jim changes his mind, I'll graciously let it slide, and he'll crawl back."

She saw me as an orphan, not worth treating well, thinking that was why I could not leave her.

I pushed the door open and walked in. Holly looked surprised to see me, her brows knitting in a frown.

"What are you doing here? Are you tracking me?" she asked in an accusatory tone.

I held up my phone, showing her the message she had sent.

Charles draped an arm around her shoulders, his grin looked innocent. "Ms. Jones, my stomach's acting up. I just wanted a laugh, so I had Jim bring some yogurt. You're not mad, are you?"

Holly's tense expression melted.

Oddly enough, I felt nothing. No inner turmoil, no fit of rage like before, just a calm nod to show I got the message.

Holly, who rarely felt the need to justify herself, said, "Jim, Charles was just…"

I handed her the yogurt, cutting her off mid-sentence.

Holly had had a few drinks, so driving was out of the question.

She made sure Charles was okay, then came back with me.

The taxi waited across the street.

As I stepped off the curb, Holly's hand shot out and yanked me back, just as a car zoomed by, missing me by inches.

If not for her quick thinking, I would have been hurt.

"Watch for cars when you're walking, will you?" Holly chided, her voice laced with urgency, her grip on my hand firm.

For a moment, I was lost in memories of how she used to hold my hand every time we crossed the street. It felt like a lifetime ago, and strangely unfamiliar then.

However, once we reached the other side, I slipped my hand away, unnoticed.

In the morning, I was packing up for work when Holly said, "I'll drive you."

After the late night we had, thanks to her, I was cutting it close for work. There was no time for the subway. I accepted her offer without a fuss.

I opened the car door to a sea of trendy accessories that screamed youth. The seat cushion, plush and supportive, was there for Charles' bad back. Even the dashboard boasted a model sports car; it was Charles' favorite.

A sticker with playful lettering of the words 'Ms. Jones's Little Assistant Reserved Seat' on the dashboard, boldly claiming its territory.

It was almost comical that Holly, known for her no-nonsense, take-charge attitude, would tolerate such a whimsical item in her car.

Discomfort briefly shadowed Holly's face as she explained, "Don't sweat it too much. There's nothing going on between us."

'They went to take couple photos and yet she said there was nothing going on between them?' I mused silently.

I kept my thoughts to myself, but the day after we started divorce proceedings, Holly flaunted their lovey-dovey photos on social media. There was even a caption. [Capturing every sexy moment of you.]

Whether it was a jab at me for wanting the divorce or something else, her affections had clearly shifted to places unseen by me.

Shaking off the memory, I tactfully chose the back seat, saying, "I'll sit back here."

"Skipped breakfast?"

To break the awkward silence, Holly reached over and offered me a bottle of milk.

Glancing up, I noticed a snack box brimming with cookies, candied fruits, and jellies, a stark contrast to Holly's usual ban on eating in her car due to her obsession with cleanliness.

I recalled a time when I was pale and weak from low blood sugar in her car, desperate for a sip of milk, which she had flatly denied.

However, Charles seemed to have her full permission to indulge.

The difference between being loved and unloved was painfully clear.

I politely declined the milk, turning my gaze to the blur of cars outside.

Soon enough, we reached the office, and I hurried to my desk.

In theory, with the divorce looming, I should be drafting my resignation. However, with two projects still on my plate, I felt obliged to see them through before walking away.

Morning and noon flew by in a blur; I was swamped, and a lousy night's sleep left me feeling less than sharp.

I was about to brew myself a much-needed coffee when the delivery guy showed up with a surprise: a huge box filled with lattes and cupcakes.

The office erupted with cheers.

"They say the head honcho is springing for afternoon tea. Talk about generosity!"

"You're out of the loop. It's only for Charles: he's been hitting the gym hard, trying to slim down. The head honcho felt for him, so she got the coffee as a treat. We all just got lucky!"

"Wait, didn't the head honcho tie the knot with Jim?"

"Shh, Jim's right over there!"

"Jim, don't mind us, we're just messing around. Don't take it seriously."

One glance at the sea of lattes and chocolate cakes, and I knew the score.

Holly felt bad for Charles' grueling diet, so she treated the whole office to a snack.

I would have loved to savor that sweet gesture of their love.

Too bad chocolate is off-limits for me.

Holly used to court me with the same zeal, constantly fretting I would skip meals because of work. She would find excuses to keep me around, to share a bite.

When I was sick but stuck at my desk, she would sneak meds into a cupcake, delivering it herself, all to catch a glimpse of my awkward grimace.

Our office romance once brought that place to life.

However, now, that thrill and thoughtfulness have shifted to someone else.

I could not dwell on it; my workload was a beast.

This project had me burning the midnight oil for nights on end, and today was no different. I had to push through.

Evening crept in, the sky dimming to dusk, and before I knew it, Holly was by my side.

"Jim, still grinding away?"

Her sudden appearance caught me off guard. I wondered what brought her there.

"Ms. Jones, is there something you need?"

She seemed thrown off by my distant tone, but she got straight to the point. "Let's hand this project to Charles."

Despite bracing myself, the words still stung.

"Charles has been the target of too many rumors lately. If he takes on this project, no one will question his competence."

Holly knew the lengths I had gone to secure that project, the sleepless nights, the endless talking. Yet then, she was casually passing it off to him. Her every word was a shield for Charles, protecting him from the whispers, with no regard for the injustice I felt.

I let out a dry laugh, dripping with irony. "Fine, give it to him. He can come by tomorrow to discuss the details with me."

I had given my all to this company, and it was time to move on. I should let Charles handle the projects that followed. I was ready for some peace.

Holly was taken aback by my swift acceptance. She fished out a man's watch from her pocket and offered it to me. "You've always wanted a watch from this brand. I should've been more thoughtful. Guys dig this stuff, and I'll make it up to you, bit by bit."

It was the brand I had my eye on, but her timing was off. The watch had lost its allure. I was never one for the old bait-and-switch.

After I gave her the nod, Holly's voice softened, and she surprised me by wrapping her arms around my waist. "Let's not butt heads anymore," she said gently. "I messed up last time. Why don't we scrap the divorce papers in the next few days? And you've been dying to check out Dalewood, right? I'll make it up to you. We'll go there together, okay?"

I kept silent, and Holly mistook my quiet for agreement, chattering away about plans and promises.

On my way home, scrolling through friends' updates on social media, I stumbled upon Charles' latest brag: a watch, identical in brand and packaging to the one Holly gave me, but his was leagues more luxurious and refined.

That was when it hit me: the watch from Holly was nothing more than a promotional throwaway. Ridiculous. She knew I liked it, but she could not be bothered to pick out something special.